Chapter Text
The first thing Bruce registered was the smell; damp stone, old ozone.
The second thing he registered was the weight.
His body felt like lead. He tried to shift his arm, only to find it pinned beneath someone’s shoulder. His legs were tangled with another person’s. The cell was small—dangerously small—meant for a single prisoner, not five grown men.
"Don't move," a voice rasped near his ear. It was Jason. He sounded like he’d been screaming, or maybe he’d just inhaled too much gas. "Unless you want to put your boot through my ribs, B. We’re packed in here like sardines."
Bruce forced his eyes open. The lighting was a dim, flickering orange from a torch outside the heavy iron bars.
He was sitting on the floor, his back against a weeping stone wall. To his right, Dick was slumped, barely conscious, his head resting on Bruce’s shoulder. Pressed against Bruce’s chest was Damian, who was currently curled into a small ball.
And then there was Tim.
Tim was squeezed into the corner between Jason and the bars. He was wedged into the far corner, his head lolling back against the cold stone. His breathing was shallow—too shallow for Bruce’s liking.
"Tim?" Bruce’s voice was a sandpaper scratch. He tried to reach out, but with Damian dead weight against his chest and Dick slumped on his shoulder, his range of motion was non-existent. "Tim, sweetheart—"
Jason shifted, his boots scraping against the floor as he tried to nudge Tim’s leg with his own. "Hey, TimTam. Rise and shine. Not the time for a nap.”
Tim’s response was a sluggish, heavy blink. He tried to lift his hand, perhaps to reach for his head or to grab onto Jason’s arm, but the movement was wrong, Bruce noticed. His arm rose a few inches off the floor in a slow, wandering arc before it simply went limp, falling back against the stone with a dull thud. He didn't even seem to feel it.
"His pulse," Bruce commanded, looking at Jason. "Check his pulse, Jay."
Jason grunted, his face contorted with the effort of moving in the tiny cell. He managed to press two fingers to the side of Tim’s neck. He stayed like that for a heartbeat, his own breathing hitched.
"It’s there," Jason finally muttered, though his voice lacked its usual bite. "But it’s thready. He’s deep under, B. Whatever they pumped into him... it wasn't just a sedative, I think.”
They had been taken as civilians. Bruce could feel the thin, expensive fabric of his dress shirt clinging to his back with cold sweat, a stark contrast to the rough, weeping stone. Dick was in a simple hoodie, Jason in a worn leather jacket, Tim in his soft Superboy oversized sweater, and Damian in his private school uniform, the tie crooked and silk vest wrinkled.
Bruce knew this was Ra's scheme. He had been many times here, but the question of why gnawed at Bruce’s mind—Ra's al Ghul was a man of grand designs, not petty kidnappings. To gather the entire family in their civilian clothes; stripping them of their armor, their symbols, and their masks was a deliberate act of desecration.
Bruce tried moving again.
His body felt heavy and slow, like he was underwater. Not paralyzed — just drugged. Whatever they used was probably a gas. Something they breathed in. Something fast.
He forced his breathing to remain even. Panic would spike the metabolization rate.
No restraints now. For now. Which meant this wasn’t containment. It was staging.
Unless there was something he missed.
Was this about Damian?
Bruce’s eyes shifted to the boy curled against his chest. Damian was stiff, his breathing hitching in a way that suggested he was awake but paralyzed by the sheer claustrophobia of the situation—
"Is this because of you, brat?" Jason grumbled, his voice vibrating through the cramped space. "Did you lose a duel? Did mommy decide the whole family needed a reunion in the pits?"
"Silence, Todd," Damian spat, though the venom lacked its usual bite. He didn't look up. "Grandfather does not act on whims. If he wanted me, he would have taken me alone. He wouldn't waste the sardine treatment on the rest of you."
Jason made a low noise. “Wow. Feel the love.”
“Guys,” Dick sighed. Bruce hadn’t realized he was awake. “Stop fighting. This isn't the time. Save your energy. We need to stay focused."
Dick shifted faintly against him. “Also, Bruce? You wanna maybe… not hyperventilate on top of us? Kinda cramped already.”
Then, all of sudden the air in the hallway seemed to drop ten degrees.
Half a dozen masked assassins rounded the corner, their hands resting on the hilts of their dao blades.
Ra’s al Ghul stepped into the center of that path.
He looked regal, his green-and-gold robes sweeping against the stone floor. He didn't look like a kidnapper; he looked like a king visiting his menagerie. He stopped inches from the bars.
"A touching tableau," Ra’s purred, his voice a smooth, terrifying silk. "The great Batman, reduced to a heap of limbs and common cotton. Tell me, do you feel the weight of your mortality yet?"
Bruce didn't answer. He couldn't move without crushing Damian, so he simply glared.
"You've gone to a lot of trouble for a reunion, Ra's," Bruce said, his voice dropping into a lethal growl. "What do you want?"
"I want what is yours."
"If you're here for Damian, you're wasting your time," Bruce growled, his arm tightening as much as the space allowed, shielding his boy. "And you will never touch Jason again. I won't allow it."
Jason let out a sharp, jagged bark of laughter from the corner. "Yeah, sorry to break it to you, O' Ghul, but I’m not really in the mood for a career change. Find another zombie."
Ra’s didn't even blink. He didn't even look at them. His gaze remained fixed, cold and unwavering, on the far corner of the cell.
"You misunderstand me," Ra’s said. He stepped closer to the bars. "The blood heir is a legacy I have already written. The resurrected soldier is a tragedy I have already witnessed. Neither of them is what I require to ensure the League survives the coming centuries."
What—
To Bruce's horror, Ra's hand caressed Tim’s cheek, slow, his thumb traced the line of his sharp jaw.
"Get away from him, you creepy fuck!" Jason snarled, his body coiling like a trapped predator, but it was Dick who surged forward as much as the claustrophobic space allowed.
"Don't touch him." Dick’s voice was a whip-crack of pure, protective fury. He tried to shove his arm between the bars to break Ra's grip, his face inches from the metal. "Take your hands off my brother, Ra's, or I swear to God I’ll tear this whole mountain down on top of you.”
"Now, Grayson," Ra's purred, his voice cutting through the tension like a blade. "No wonder my little Detective has begun to favor such... colorful language. He must have learned it from his elder brothers. It is a pity, such a premier intellect shouldn't be cluttered with the vulgarity of the streets."
The realization hit Bruce like a physical blow, more painful than the cold stone at his back.
How had he missed it?
He had been so focused on the obvious targets. He’d spent years watching Damian for signs of the League’s influence, guarding the boy's soul like a fortress. He had spent months monitoring Jason’s vital signs and temper, terrified the Pit would reclaim him. He had spent a lifetime worrying about Dick’s independence.
And Tim—his sweet son, the one who always filled the gaps, the one who never asked for the spotlight, had been the target all along.
While Bruce had been guarding the front gates against the shadows haunting Damian and Jason, Ra’s had been slipping through the side door, weaving a web around the one boy, his boy.
A low, guttural sound—somewhere between a growl and a gasp—hitched in his son's throat. Tim’s hand—the one Bruce thought was paralyzed—snapped up. It was sluggish, shaking with the effort of fighting the neurotoxin, but his fingers clamped around Ra’s wrist in a weak, desperate grip.
Ra’s raised an eyebrow, genuinely impressed by the resistance. "Remarkable. Even with a dosage meant to level a man twice your size, you still claw at the edges of your cage."
"Don't... this is... just between me... and you, R-Ra's. Leave... them... out of this," Tim rasped, his grip on Ra's wrist tightening despite the sluggish tremors racking his body.
"I have missed you, beloved."
Bruce felt a visceral jolt of nausea at the term—a title Ra’s usually reserved only for those he deemed worthy of his twisted version of love, or his immortality.
"Grandfather, what is the meaning of this?!"
Ra's ignored him.
"The world has been exceptionally dull without our games of wits. I found myself... impatient for your return." He purred.
Tim whimpered, it was a sound Bruce had rarely heard. He was trying to push Ra’s away, but the neurotoxin had turned his muscles into viscous lead.
Dick’s breath hitched, a sound of pure, strangled outrage. "Don’t you dare," he hissed, his body vibrating with a protective fury so intense it seemed to heat the air in the tiny cell. "Don't you call him that. You don't get to use that word for him!"
Dick’s knuckles were white, the skin split and bleeding where he had been grinding them against the iron bars. He tried to shove his shoulder through the gap, desperate to put himself between Ra's and his brother. "Tim, don't listen! He’s trying to get inside your head! B, he’s—"
"I am aware of what he is doing, Grayson," Ra’s interrupted. He didn't even look at Dick. His focus remained entirely on the boy clutching his wrist, looking so so small and fragile— and how come Bruce let this happen.
"He’s a child, Ra's!" Dick snarled.
"Grandfather, answer me!" Damian’s voice was sharp, a high-pitched blade of pure confusion and betrayal. "If you seek an heir, I am here! Why do you waste words on... on Drake?!" He spat the name like it was a mouthful of ash. "I am the son of Batman! I am al Ghul! You cannot replace me with—with him!"
Ra's sighed. "You were a biological inevitability. You are the product of a laboratory and a birthright—a weapon I forged before you ever drew breath. I gave you the world on a silver platter, and how did you repay that grandeur?"
Bruce felt Damian stiffen beside him.
For a second, Damian looked like he was going to argue. Instead, his shoulders dropped. Just a little. Most people wouldn’t have noticed.
Bruce did.
He wanted to pull him in. Wanted to grab his face and tell him, you are enough. You have always been enough. You don’t need his approval. You don’t need anyone’s. You don’t need to earn your place with me.
But he had never been good at saying those things out loud.
Like a coward he was.
Ra's stepped closer to the bars.
"You turned your back on your destiny for the sake of a moral code that weakens you. You chose to be a satellite orbiting the Detective's failed sun rather than a star in your own right. You have disappointed me, Damian. You have betrayed the very blood that flows through your veins by attempting to tame it."
Ra’s turned his gaze back to Tim, his expression softening into something far more terrifying than the anger he showed Damian. Bruce wanted to keep his sons close to him but the cold reality of the situation made him feel like he was watching them drown while his own hands were tied.
"But my beloved... he has no such obligation. He has no blood claim to my throne, yet he possesses the one thing you lack, the clarity to see the world as it is. He is not my heir because of a name. He is my heir because he is the only one who has ever been my match."
Tim made a sluggish, fractured sound. He used his grip on Ra’s wrist—
Tim didn't look at Dick. He didn't even look at Bruce, whose face was a mask of guttural agony. He kept his eyes locked on Ra’s.
"You want... me," Tim slurred, his chest heaving under the sweater. Every word was a battle against the neurotoxin. "You want... the vision. Fine. But... the deal... has to be... absolute. They have... nothing... to do with this. This mess... is just... between us."
Ra’s tilted his head, leaning into the iron bars. "You wish to bargain, Timothy? While you can barely stand?"
Tim took a jagged breath, his fingers trembling violently against Ra's sleeve. "Or... you let them... go. Right now. Unmonitored. Unharmed. You give... your word... as the Demon’s Head. No tracking... no following. They go home."
"And in return?" Ra’s purred, the sound oily and triumphant.
"In return... I stop fighting," Tim said, his voice hitching. "I stay. I listen. You can break... my body. You can drag me... into the Pit. I... become... your partner. No escape. No sabotage. Just... me."
"Tim, shut up," Jason hissed from behind him, his voice cracking with desperation. He tried to grab Tim's shoulder to pull him back into the safety of the huddle, but Tim was leaning all his weight into his grip on Ra's. "Don't you dare try to martyr yourself, kid. B, do something!"
Bruce was struggling, his muscles screaming as he tried to find enough leverage in the packed space to reach his son. "Tim, let go of him. That's an order!"
Tim didn't let go. If anything, he used Ra's arm to pull himself closer to the iron bars, his face inches from the man who wanted to rewrite his soul. "Just... me," Tim whispered, his voice dropping to a slur. "Let them go... and I’ll... I'll stop fighting."
Ra’s let out a soft, humming laugh that made the hair on Bruce's neck stand up. He reached his other hand through the bars, not to strike, but to gently cover Tim’s white-knuckled hand with his own rough palm. Bruce felt a surge of nausea that tasted like copper.
"A tempting offer," Ra’s purred. "But you misunderstand the nature of this reunion, Timothy. I do not need your permission to take you. I simply wanted them to witness the moment you realized that you were always intended for more than their petty shadows."
He signaled to the assassins behind him. "Separate them. And be gentle with the little Detective. He has earned a momentary rest before his real work begins."
The door swung outward. Bruce tried to surge forward, to throw his body over Tim, anything to get to his second youngest son but the space was too small to gain leverage. Two men seized Bruce’s arms, pinning him back against the weeping stone.
"No! Give him back!" Dick screamed, his body a blur of motion as he tried to leap over the guards, but he was forced down by the weight of three men.
Damian tried to bite the arm of the guard pinning him, his face red with the kind of humiliation only a kid can feel when they've been told they aren't good enough. "Let go! I'll kill you! I'll kill all of you!"
Jason scrambled up from the floor, his movements clumsy and heavy-legged. He reached out, his fingers brushing the soft of Tim’s sleeve for a split second, trying to get a grip. But he had no leverage. An assassin just shoved his shoulder, and Jason went down again, his head hitting the stone.
But it was too late.
Bruce could only watch, his breath hitching in a sob he refused to let out, as Ra’s stepped into the cell. The Demon’s Head reached down, his hands sliding under Tim’s arms. He hoisted the boy’s lead-heavy body up as if he weighed nothing at all.
"The... deal," Tim croaked, his voice barely a vibration. "You... said..."
"I said the offer was tempting, Timothy. I did not say I would leave the others to plot my demise," His face inches from Tim’s. He tucked the boy’s head against his shoulder, his grip possessive. "But for you? I will grant them a head start. A mercy for my new partner."
Bruce was pinned, his arms held by two men twice the size of a normal human, his eyes locked onto Tim’s glassy gaze. He watched as Tim’s hand, the one that had been clawing at Ra’s wrist, finally went limp. It dangled over the Demon's shoulder. His head lolled onto Ra’s shoulder, his face tucked against the green-and-gold silk, looking like a broken doll.
"You'll never keep him," Bruce growled. "He'll fight you every step of the way. I know my son."
Bruce stopped struggling. He took a deep breath, forcing the roar in his ears to settle into a cold, sharp hum. He couldn’t afford to be overly emotional right now. Not if one of his children hung in the balance. He had to keep his head clear.
He had to find out what Ra’s was up to. He couldn’t protect Tim from a threat he didn’t see coming, an attack he didn’t know about. His outburst, the raw, desperate scream for his son, seemed to be the exact reaction Ra’s was hoping for.
Ra’s paused at the entrance, glancing back over his shoulder at the wreckage of the family. "He will fight," Ra's agreed, a thin, cruel smile touching his lips. "And that is exactly why he is the only one worthy of the name Beloved."
And with that, Tim was gone.
Jason was the first to move. He slammed his fist into the stone wall, a sound like a gunshot. "We sat there," Jason hissed, his breath hitching. "We sat there and let that ancient freak just... carry him out. Like he was nothing. Like he was some prize."
"Jason, calm down." Bruce said, though he could barely force the words past the tightness in his own chest.
"Calm down?" Jason's voice cracked. "He made a deal for us. Do you get that? Baby bird thinks he’s a trade-in! He’s out there with that monster right now, drugged out of his mind, and we’re standing in a box! God knows what Ra's gonna do with him—fuck! And we're just letting him?! He’s a kid!"
Dick didn't say a word. He had collapsed against the far wall, his knees pulled to his chest. He was shaking, his hands buried in his hair.
Jason kicked a loose rock across the floor. "He’s probably got him in some... some sick twisted palace room right now, and Tim thinks we just let it happen. I’m going to kill him. I don’t care about the rules."
"I should've known," Dick whispered, his voice cracking as he stared at the floor. "Back when Ra's threw him off the Wayne building... I thought it was just a test. I thought he was just trying to see if Tim was a good enough detective to survive."
He gripped his hair tighter, his knuckles turning white. "But it wasn't just that. It was never just that. I thought Tim just pissed him off, but I didn't think that freak actually wanted to... wanted Tim like that."
Dick’s stomach stopped convulsing, replaced by the jerky movement of his lungs as he sobbed. “I just—fuck, Bruce.”
He looked over at his father. Bruce was standing like a statue, his back turned, and Dick didn’t know if he was grateful for the space or if he was drowning in it.
“It was my fault. It was my fucking fault.”
“No, no Chum, it wasn’t—”
Dick shook his head, tears blurring his vision. “It was! I was supposed to protect him, I was—I didn’t even know he was with the League. I let him go off on that mission alone while you were gone."
"Tim told me... he told me about Ra's wanting an heir from him. Back during the time we thought you were dead. But Tim said not to worry. He told me he had it under control, that it was just Ra's playing mind games." Dick let out a broken, jagged breath. "And I believed him. I let him carry that because it was easier than realizing what was actually happening."
Jason froze. "He told you what?”
Dick dragged a hand down his face.
“Back when we thought Bruce was dead,” he said hoarsely. “I noticed Ra’s started circling him. Not like an enemy. Like—” He swallowed. “Like he wanted him.”
The word felt wrong in the air.
“I believed him,” Dick said again, smaller now. “He looked me dead in the eye and said he had it handled. And I wanted to believe that so badly I didn’t push.”
“I didn’t want to make things worse between us than they already were,” he admitted. “The last time I tried to push him about something like that, he stormed off. He said he wasn’t Robin anymore. Said I didn’t get to worry like that. And—”
“I thought if I backed off,” Dick continued, voice rough, “if I treated him like he wanted—like an equal, not a kid—then he’d come to me if it got bad.”
Bruce didn't answer. He couldn't. He was replaying the moment Ra's had touched Tim's face—the possessive, lingering way he had looked at the boy. Bruce had seen that look before in the eyes of men who hoarded treasures, but seeing it directed at Tim made his blood turn to ice.
“Grandfather will not break him,” Damian said suddenly.
Jason shot him a sharp look. “Excuse me?”
Damian’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t lift his eyes from the floor.
“You are all thinking of torture,” he continued. “That is not how he keeps the ones he values.”
"He will cherish him. That is the danger. He will give Timothy everything he ever wanted. Recognition, a throne, a purpose, and he will poison it until Timothy cannot tell the difference between the League and home."
"I have seen how Grandfather treated his previous partners," Damian said, his eyes fixed on the floor. "And those he deemed worthy of his own house. He does not use chains of iron. He uses chains of comfort."
Jason froze, his hand still curled into a fist against the wall. "What are you talking about?"
"He will isolate him," Damian continued, his voice trembling slightly. "He will dress Timothy in the finest clothes and surround him with beauty. He will speak to him as if he is the only person who truly understands Timothy's brilliance. He will make him feel... precious. Not like a soldier, but like a prince."
Dick let out a choked sound, half-sob and half-snarl. He wanted to vomit, his stomach lurched. His baby brother—fuck, God knows where he is right now.
“We need to get out of here.” Dick choked out. “Now. Bruce, we're not waiting. We are not waiting.”
The air in the chamber didn't smell like the cell. It didn't smell like damp stone or Jason’s leather jacket. It smelled of heavy jasmine, sandalwood, and musk that made Tim’s head swim even before he tried to move. It was a sweet smell, but it turned his stomach.
Tim’s eyes felt like they had been glued shut. When he managed to crack them open. He wasn't on a stone floor anymore.
Instead, he found himself sprawled on a bed of dark velvet, his limbs heavy and useless, draped in sheer, ink-black silk and delicate lace. The fabric was thin and see-through, with delicate lace along the edges that felt itchy against his skin. It was basically lingerie. It clung to him, leaving him feeling exposed and small, like a doll someone had dressed up for a sick joke.
Tim stared at the gold tray next to him, his vision blurring. There were pomegranates hacked open, their red juice staining the silver like blood. There were sticky dates, a few pieces of flatbread, and a small glass of dark tea that smelled like honey and herbs.
His stomach gave a loud, painful grumble. He hadn't eaten in two days. The last thing he’d had was a can of energy drink back at the Manor before everything went wrong. He was starving. His head was dizzy, and he felt like he might pass out if he didn't get some sugar in his system.
It’s probably poisoned, Tim thought, his eyes locked on the bread. Or drugged.
He was so hungry he could taste the air, but he was terrified that if he took one bite, he’d never be able to go home to Bruce and the others.
And—he almost didn't notice the shadow moving near the bed.
Ra’s didn't make a sound.
He looked way too relaxed, sitting right on the edge of the mattress like he belonged there. The bed dipped.
Ra’s reached out and ran a finger over the lace at Tim’s collarbone.
"It isn't poisoned," Ra's promised, holding the pomegranate just inches from Tim's lips. "I have no desire to harm a treasure I worked so hard to acquire. I only want you to be strong. I see the fire in you. I want to own that fire. I want to see you draped in my silks every night, knowing that the smartest mind in Gotham belongs solely to me."
"Why are you doing this?" Tim’s voice was a jagged rasp. "What game are you playing at, Ra's?"
"I have missed our banter, Timothy. It is a rare thing to find a mind that doesn't simply shatter or bow when the world tilts beneath it."
"Putting me in this—" Tim gestured weakly to the silk clinging to his pale skin, "—isn't banter. It’s a sick kind of theater. You have my family rotting in a cage of stone, and you have me here. Is your ego finally satisfied?"
"Is it humiliating to be draped in the finest silk in the world?" Ra's asked, his thumb brushing against the delicate lace at Tim's wrist. "Or are you simply ashamed that you find the comfort of it... appealing?"
"I hate it," Tim bite back. "I hate you."
"Good," Ra’s said, pressing the pomegranate seed against Tim’s bottom lip. "Hate is a strong emotion. It will keep you alive long enough to realize that your so called family isn't coming for you. They’ve already accepted the deal, Timothy. They traded you for their lives. Who is the monster now?"
Tim felt a cold spike of fear hit his chest. "You're lying."
Ra's was definitely lying. Bruce wouldn't leave. Dick wouldn't stop screaming his name until his lungs gave out. And Jason? Jason would probably level this entire mountain before he ever considered a deal.
But lying here in sheer, ink-black silk, Tim felt like he was losing his grip on that reality.
"Where... are they?" Tim croaked. His voice sounded different in the high-vaulted room, stripped of its warmth.
He thought of calling Kon. One word and his best friend would fly through the roof, breaking the sound barrier and the mountain's peak just to reach him. But Nanda Parbat was shielded by more than just stone. Even a Kryptonian’s ears might not find him here.
"They are exactly where you put them," Ra's said. "Safely outside the gates, provided they have the sense to stay there. You traded your life for theirs. It was a kingly gesture. Very... selfless."
"Fuck. You."
Ra’s didn’t flinch at the curse. He actually looked almost amused, though his eyes remained as cold as a frozen lake.
"Such a foul tongue for someone dressed so elegantly," Ra’s murmured, his fingers trailing from the lace at Tim’s collarbone down to the sheer black silk over his ribs. Tim's skin crawled at the touch. "But I suppose I can forgive the temper. Transitioning into your new life is bound to be... stressful."
"New life?" Tim’s voice was a jagged rasp. He tried to pull away. "I'm not becoming one of your assassins, Ra's. Give it up."
"Assassin? No, Timothy. I have thousands of those. They are blades—disposable and easily replaced," Ra’s whispered, his thumb brushing a drop of red pomegranate juice onto Tim’s pale, trembling lip. "I do not need another soldier. I need a partner. A consort. Someone to sit beside the throne, not stand in front of it. Someone that—I can—"
Ra’s leaned in closer, the heavy scent of musk and jasmine making Tim’s head swim. His hand didn't move from Tim’s ribs; instead, his fingers splayed out, pressing against the sheer black silk as if he were trying to feel the frantic beat of Tim's heart through the cloth.
"I have had many soldiers,” his voice dropping to a low, possessive rumble. "But I have had very few equals. I do not want you at the end of a blade. I want you here. In this bed. In this palace. By my side."
Tim’s breath hitched, a cold shiver running down his spine. "You’re sick. You think you can just... keep me?"
Tim should run away. He really should.
He shoved his palms into Ra’s’ chest with every ounce of strength he had left. It wasn't much, but it was enough to catch the Demon’s Head off guard.
Tim rolled off the side of the massive bed, his bare feet hitting the cold marble floor. The sheer black silk of the robe billowed around him, snagging on his heels. His head spun—the drugs were making the room tilt—but the adrenaline was screaming louder.
Get out. Get to the balcony.
"The exits are guarded, Timothy!” Ra’s shouted as he sat up on the edge of the sheets. "Do not make this a hunt. You will only exhaust yourself."
Tim didn't listen. He bolted for the balcony.
He didn't have his belt. He didn't have his boots. His gears—he was completely vulnerable.
He vaulted over the stone railing, dropping ten feet onto a lower terrace. He landed hard, the stone scraping his knees, but he scrambled up and kept running.
Just reach the trees. If I can reach the trees, I can hide. I can find a way to signal Bruce.
"Stop him!" a guard roared from above.
Two assassins dropped from the roof, their blades gleaming in the moonlight. Tim slid under a strike, his silk robe tearing against the gravel, and drove a heel into a guard’s kneecap. He felt the bone crunch.
He didn't stay to finish it. He scrambled toward the outer wall, his eyes searching for the treeline. If he could reach the end of the mountain, he could disappear.
"Timothy!”
Tim hit the edge of the garden, his lungs burning. The grass was cool beneath his bare feet, and he could see the dark gap in the perimeter. He was almost there—the treeline was only yards away.
The gate was just ahead, a gap in the stone where the mountain path began. He reached the edge of the grass, his toes sinking into the damp earth, and for one beautiful, soaring second, he thought he’d made it.
Almost there. Almost—
A hand grabbed the back of his neck, fingers digging into his hair.
Tim was yanked backward so hard his feet left the ground. He hit the grass with a thud, the air leaving his lungs in a wheeze. Ra’s stood over him, his shadow stretching long across Tim’s small shivering frame.
"I told you," Ra’s hissed, reaching down to grab the front of Tim’s silk robe, hauling him up until they were inches apart. "I do not want you at the end of a blade. But if I must break your legs to keep you in this palace, I will.”
Tim’s head lolled, the drugs making the moon spin above them.
"I think I can treasure you," Ra’s corrected, his thumb tracing the curve of Tim’s bottom lip. "I am going to make you my world, my beloved. And in return, you will be the jewel in my crown. I will have you, body and mind, until you forget you ever had another name."
Tim tried to pull back, but Ra’s leaned down, his lips brushing against Tim's ear. He took a sharp, jagged breath, inhaling the scent of Tim’s fear and the cloying jasmine. For a second, his fingers tightened on Tim's waist, then—
Ra’s let go. Tim sagged back to the background as Ra’s straightened, smoothing his robes, his face going back to normal.
"Accept it," Ra's murmured, looking down at the broken boy in the grass. "By the time your family realizes they cannot take you back, I will have already taken you. I will have filled the spaces they left behind with my own name."
He turned to the guards, his voice cold. "Carry him back to the chamber. Prepare the ceremony. If he moves again, break his ankles."
That same night, Tim cried.